


From Russia, With Love

by cirnelle



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Modern AU, Olympics, Olympics!AU, Podfic Available, how did all this plot get into my porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7772968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirnelle/pseuds/cirnelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon Solo, member of the USA Media Team at the Rio Olympics, meets Russian gymnast Illya Kuryakin, and sparks fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Russia, With Love

**Author's Note:**

> In celebration of the Rio Olympics, which I have clearly been watching too much of.
> 
> Podfic read by [flashforeward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flashforeward/pseuds/flashforeward) available [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11295570)!

Coming to Rio de Janeiro as part of the USA Media Team for the Olympics was probably one of the best assignments of his career so far, thought Napoleon Solo as he strolled down Copacabana Beach sipping a capirinha. It was the day before the Olympic Games were to begin and the Olympic Village was bustling with activity, some delegations just arriving, others who had already moved in busily unpacking, arranging their rooms to their liking and proudly hanging their countries’ flags outside their contingent’s apartments. Napoleon, having arrived earlier with the rest of the American delegation, had left his suitcase in his apartment and promptly escaped to the relatively relaxed atmosphere of the beach.

The weather was glorious, if a little too humid, but the blue waves lapping at miles and miles of golden sand more than made up for the humidity. Napoleon came to an abrupt halt, almost dropping his capirinha as he came upon a group of beautiful bikini-clad women giggling as they played a game of beach volleyball. Around them, a number of men stood in eerily similar glassy-eyed, slack-jawed admiration.

 _Scratch that earlier thought_ , decided Napoleon happily. This was _definitely_ the best assignment of his career so far.

He was so busy looking at the women as he strolled that he almost cannoned into a jogger going in the opposite direction. The man looked deceptively slender, but Napoleon could see the muscle under the tight white T-shirt he was sporting. The jogger made an annoyed noise, brushing blond hair out of his eyes as he dodged to one side to avoid bumping into Napoleon.

“Oh! Excuse me,” Napoleon said politely, moving aside.

The jogger nodded curtly at him, pushed his sunglasses up his nose, then continued on his way. Napoleon turned around to cast an appreciative glance at the man’s very nicely-shaped ass under his almost nonexistent pair of shorts. _This is going to be a great assignment_ , thought Napoleon cheerfully to himself as he continued down the beach.

 

***

 

The next morning, Napoleon was up bright and early to cover the men’s gymnastics qualification round. He scanned the crowd as he entered the Arena Olímpica – where all the gymnastics events were being held – and smiled as he saw the throngs of people excitedly chattering to each other, eagerly craning their necks to watch the activity going on the arena. Waving to his team, he was walking over to join them when his attention was arrested by a blond man with piercing blue eyes, dressed in a tight red-and-white competition shirt with ‘Russian Olympic Team’ emblazoned across the front, hurrying past him. He blinked, recognizing the jogger he’d almost run into on the beach yesterday.

Noticing Napoleon’s sudden start, the blond stopped and turned toward him, tipping his head slightly in recognition.

“I see you’re looking where you’re going today, at least,” he said by way of greeting.

“Ah,” stuttered Napoleon. How had he not noticed how _gorgeous_ this man was, yesterday? He’d noticed the physique, definitely, but now that the man was no longer wearing his sunglasses, oh, the view was _infinitely_ better. The high cheekbones, full lips, and those ridiculously blue eyes...Napoleon fought the ludicrous urge to lick his lips. Being part of the Media Team, he’d of course looked through the profiles of the other teams that the USA would be competing against, but this man’s photo must’ve not done him justice or Napoleon would _definitely_ have remembered him.

The blond raised an eyebrow at him.

“I was,” said Napoleon, recovering, “a little distracted by the scenery, yesterday.” He made a show of looking the other man up and down, and grinned.

The blond rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Americans,” he grumbled.

Napoleon laughed and held out a hand. “Napoleon Solo. I’m with the Media Team for the USA.”

“Illya Kuryakin,” was the reply, as his hand was gripped in a firm handshake.

Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon saw his boss, Mr. Waverly, gesticulating irritably to him from where the USA team was standing. “I have to go,” he said apologetically. “Good luck, Illya.” He gave Illya’s hand a final squeeze.

Illya nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up in a faint smile. “Thank you, Napoleon.”

 

***

 

The USA and Russian men’s gymnastics teams both qualified handily for the finals, which was to be held in a few days’ time. Illya, whom Napoleon watched appreciatively on the horizontal bars, strong and serious and graceful, also easily qualified for the individual horizontal bar final, which Napoleon was thrilled about since it meant he would get to see Illya compete again (he didn’t have a crush, he really didn’t).

After the end of the qualifications, Napoleon did his rounds of all the American gymnasts to conduct short interviews and get sound bites for his post-competition feature. As he was conducting his first interview with Harry, one of the American gymnasts, Illya walked by behind Harry, casually pouring some water over his head from a plastic bottle to cool off.

The water dripped off his blond hair and ran down glistening muscle, turning Illya’s thin white competition shirt translucent. Napoleon blinked, did a double take and almost dropped his microphone, only managing to rescue it thanks to his quick reflexes. Harry smirked at him and cheerfully continued talking into the microphone.

Some minutes later, as he was interviewing Mark, one of the other American gymnasts with whom he was good friends, Illya walked by again, in the other direction this time. Directly in Napoleon’s line of sight, he stopped abruptly, noticing that his shoelace was undone, and bent over to tie it, the body-hugging material of his tights stretching taut over his very nice ass.

Napoleon swallowed hard and asked Mark “So – uh – how do you feel about our chances in the team final?"

“One second,” Mark said politely to the cameraman, then pulled Napoleon over to one side.

“Napoleon,” he hissed, “you already asked me that question.”

Napoleon cleared his throat sheepishly. “Just making sure you were paying attention.”

Mark burst out laughing. After a few minutes, when he had calmed down, they resumed the interview, Napoleon shooting Mark dirty looks when the camera wasn't focused on him.

To Napoleon’s relief, Illya disappeared after that little incident, and the rest of his interviews went flawlessly. As he was on his way out of the arena, he almost bumped into Illya, who was coming out of the locker room, bag slung over his shoulder.

He smirked at Napoleon. “See something you like?”

Napoleon blinked, coming to a belated realization. “All that parading around in front of me – you were doing that on _purpose_ ,” he said accusingly.

“You were not very subtle,” Illya sighed.

“Well, since the damage is done,” said Napoleon, “can I buy you a drink? Or something non-alcoholic, since I suppose you might not be drinking until you’re done competing?”

“I will not drink alcohol until after my events are over, but you may buy me a cup of tea,” said Illya. He eyed Napoleon. “I suppose you drink coffee,” he added, in the same tones one might employ to say _I suppose you are an ax murderer_ , or _I suppose you kill kittens for fun_.

“I can drink tea,” said Napoleon. “I prefer coffee, though,” he admitted.

“That’s all right,” said Illya graciously.

 

***

 

In the end, Napoleon bought Illya a cup of tea, and himself a cup of coffee, from a café near the Arena Olímpica, then strolled with him to the nearby bus stop, where they caught a shuttle bus back to the Olympic Village. They had dinner together in the Olympic dining hall, then Illya invited Napoleon up to his room in Russia’s apartment complex, where Napoleon accepted a cup of tea, since Illya didn’t have any coffee.

They settled on the couch, sipping their tea. Illya finished his tea first, then waited politely for Napoleon to finish his and put the cup down before turning to him with an intent look on his face. Hands cupping Napoleon’s jaw, he kissed him, slow and thorough, tongue slipping through Napoleon’s parted lips and exploring every corner of his mouth.

Napoleon responded with enthusiasm, surging into the kiss, running his hands through Illya’s blond hair, tongue seeking out Illya’s as he pulled the other man closer. Illya tasted of mint and honey and of the tea he’d been drinking, and Napoleon thought hazily that he could definitely start getting addicted to the taste of tea if he could taste it like _this_. He was already half-hard, his trousers feeling increasingly constrictive by the second.

He tugged Illya over so that the blond was straddling him, groaning as he felt the matching hardness pressing insistently against him. He palmed the bulge in Illya’s trousers, swallowing Illya’s moan; Illya thrust his hips against him and the tiny part of Napoleon’s brain that was still capable of thought wondered why they were both still fully clothed.

As if reading his mind, Illya got up off the couch, pulling Napoleon with him. He kissed Napoleon hard, his fingers busily unbuckling Napoleon’s belt as he walked Napoleon backward toward the bed.

Napoleon let himself be led, his own hands occupied with the top button of Illya’s trousers. He’d only gotten as far as getting Illya’s trousers off and his shirt halfway unbuttoned when he abruptly found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, his trousers and boxers around his ankles.

Illya dropped gracefully to his knees in front of him, and Napoleon’s eyes widened as Illya bent his head, touching his lips to the tip of Napoleon’s extremely interested cock. He bit his lip hard, clutching desperately at the bed covers, as Illya nosed at the curls at the base of his cock, then licked a trail of warm wetness up from root to tip.

He couldn’t quite stifle his cry as Illya took his cock fully in his mouth then, strong hands gripping his thighs. Illya pulled back, then swallowed him down to the root again; Napoleon was unable to stop his hips from thrusting into that delicious wet heat, almost choking Illya. “Ahh, sorry – ” he gasped, digging his nails into the edge of the bed.

Illya, not in the least deterred, gripped Napoleon’s thighs with strong fingers and continued his ministrations, wringing incoherent sobs and cries from Napoleon as he licked and sucked expertly. Napoleon touched his hands tentatively to Illya’s head, tangling his fingers in the silky strands when Illya made an encouraging noise.

Napoleon was moaning continuously now as Illya sped up the pace, cheeks hollowed, broad, warm hands leaving Napoleon’s thighs to caress his balls, cupping them firmly. He had a vice grip on Illya’s hair, but Illya didn’t seem to mind.

“Christ,” gasped Napoleon. “Christ, Illya – I – I’m – ” and came so hard that he saw stars, fingers clutched desperately in Illya’s hair. Illya kept up the suction as he shuddered through his orgasm, swallowing every drop of his seed before releasing his softening cock. He pillowed his head on Napoleon’s thigh as Napoleon flopped back onto the bed.

“What about you?” Napoleon asked, when he had recovered sufficiently to remember how to form words again. He struggled, with some difficulty, back up to a sitting position. “I didn’t – ” he reached for Illya.

“There is no need,” said Illya, and as Napoleon started to protest, added, “I already – ” and then he stopped, gestured at his crotch, and actually _blushed_.

“Oh,” said Napoleon, “ _oh,_ ” and then he had to stop talking for a while, because whatever little blood had managed to make it back to his brain abruptly rushed south, leaving him dizzy, and he could feel his cock hardening again. He hadn’t had this short a refractory period since he’d been a teenager, but the image of Illya, pink lips wrapped around Napoleon’s cock, cheeks hollowed, so turned on that he’d come without a single touch on his own cock, left Napoleon giddy with want.

He pulled Illya back up onto the bed with both hands fisted in his shirt until Illya was lying on top of him, kissing him ferociously, licking at Illya’s teeth, at the roof of his mouth, swallowing his moans as they both rutted helplessly against each other, until they were both fully hard again. With shaky, impatient fingers, Napoleon pushed Illya’s briefs down to his knees, then they were thrusting against each other, cocks full and straining, Illya gasping into his cheek as Napoleon clutched desperately at him, digging his nails into sweat-slick skin and hard muscle.

Napoleon threw his head back, panting; he was so close – Illya reached between them, warm hand cupping Napoleon’s balls and sliding up his cock as he covered Napoleon’s lips with his own, then Napoleon was coming, his cries muffled in Illya’s mouth as he spurted between them, semen spattering on Illya’s belly and over his fingers. Illya moaned, thrusting hard once, twice; then he cried out and shuddered, slicking Napoleon’s skin with wet warmth.

Napoleon groaned as Illya collapsed bonelessly onto him, completely heedless of the sticky mess between them. He wrapped his arms loosely around the other man, palms resting in the small of Illya’s back, nudging his nose into the crook of Illya’s neck.

After a few minutes, Illya regained enough presence of mind to roll off of Napoleon, so that Napoleon could breathe again. The blond sprawled on his back beside Napoleon and mumbled something indistinctly.

“Hmm?” Napoleon lazily rolled over onto his side and curled around Illya.

“This must be an American ploy,” said Illya. “They sent you in here to seduce me and tire me out so that I will not perform at my best in the competition.” He yawned hugely.

“I guess I’ve been found out,” said Napoleon agreeably. “And I thought your performance was pretty stellar, actually.” He thrust his hips playfully against Illya’s side. “How about another round?”

 

***

 

When Napoleon finally managed to stagger back to his room, Mr. Waverly was standing in front of the door, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, when he saw Napoleon.

Napoleon winced, feeling rather like a teenager caught out past curfew. Mr. Waverly tended to have that effect on people. Rumors of his British boss being ex-MI6 had floated around the office as long as Napoleon had been working there, and he wasn’t about to disbelieve them – the man was sharp as a tack and had the uncanny ability to be exactly where a story was breaking, two seconds before it broke.

“Sir?” he said cautiously, hoping fervently that he didn’t look like he’d just had the best sex of his life.

“The water in the Olympic swimming pools has apparently developed a strange color and odor.” Mr. Waverly held out a stack of notes and photos. “I want you to find out who’s doing it, and why.”

Napoleon blinked, puzzled. _Couldn’t that just be a filtration issue,_ he wanted to ask, but didn’t – Mr. Waverly always had a good reason for sending him on particular assignments, so if his boss thought someone was doing this on purpose, then he was probably right.

“Yes, sir,” he said instead, taking the stack of papers.

“You might want to wear a turtleneck tomorrow, if you have one,” advised Mr. Waverly, apropos of nothing, and with that Parthian shot, disappeared down the hallway.

Brow furrowed in puzzlement at his boss’s last remark, Napoleon unlocked the door of his room and collapsed on the couch to go through the notes Mr. Waverly had left him with, trying, without much success, to stay focused on the notes and not let his mind wander to what he had been doing for the last couple of hours, and with whom. _Illya’s hands, broad and strong, gripping his thighs, his wicked smile as he bent his head to –_ Napoleon groaned, rubbed his eyes and read the same line on the stack of papers for the fifth time.

It wasn’t until later, when he went into the bathroom to take a quick shower and brush his teeth before going to bed that he saw, in his reflection in the mirror, the neat line of livid red bruises that Illya had left on his neck. Groaning, he ran his hands haphazardly through his hair and tried to recall if he’d brought a turtleneck with him on this trip.

 

***

 

The next morning, Napoleon headed to the Aquatic Center to cover some of Team USA’s women’s swimming events. One of the pools was closed and blocked off. Peeking through the barrier, Napoleon saw that the water of the pool was a dirty green, a sharp, unpleasant chemical odor rising from the water. Wrinkling his nose, he backed away quickly and headed to the other pool, where the swimming competition was to take place.

To his surprise, he saw Illya at the far end of the stands, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, talking to the Russian swimming team’s coach. As if sensing Napoleon’s eyes on him, Illya turned, meeting Napoleon’s gaze unerringly, and gave him a tiny, private smile. To his embarrassment, Napoleon felt his ears grow warm. Sheepishly, he turned away and back to the stands.

Mark, the American gymnast, was sitting in one of the front rows, dressed in a baggy T-shirt and shorts. He waved Napoleon over. Recalling that Mark’s girlfriend was competing in some of today’s swimming events, Napoleon waved back and walked over to join his friend.

“Nice turtleneck,” said Mark, eyeing Napoleon doubtfully. “Isn’t it a bit warm for it, though?”

Napoleon shrugged, opened his mouth, paused, then closed it again. He was saved from having to make up an excuse by the announcement blaring through the hall that the events were about to begin.

Midway through the women’s 400m individual medley, Napoleon noticed that Illya, standing a little ways aside from the Russian women’s swimming team, was talking to a pretty, swimsuit-clad blonde woman. They were standing very close together, and as she laughed up at him, Illya touched a hand tenderly to her cheek, smiling fondly at her.

Napoleon quickly looked away, a sinking feeling in his stomach. This was the Olympics, after all, it wasn’t like he wasn’t aware that everyone was sleeping with everyone else, here. It was just that he’d thought – he’d _hoped_...well, it didn’t matter what he’d hoped, since Illya was evidently planning on having a good time here. A good time that involved many people who were not Napoleon.

Mark, glancing over at Napoleon’s stricken expression, wisely remained silent.

 

***

 

That afternoon, Napoleon had a short meeting with his boss, in which it was agreed – well, decreed by Mr. Waverly, rather – that Napoleon would stake out the swimming pools that night, in case whoever had contaminated the first pool came back to do the same for the other pools. His boss really seemed to be developing something of an obsession about those pools, thought Napoleon bemusedly.

Anticipating a long night, Napoleon got himself a flask of hot coffee and a sandwich, and let himself into the Aquatic Center shortly before closing time. He settled himself as comfortably as he could behind a stack of crates, where he would be hidden from anyone walking into the building.

He had been there for about twenty minutes and was sitting on the floor quietly sipping his coffee when he heard a small sound from right behind the crates he was leaning against. Tensing, he put down the flask – only to almost jump out of his skin as someone crept quietly around the crates and almost stepped on him.

Napoleon yelped, jolting backward, and the person who had come round the crates froze. “Napoleon?”

“ _Illya_? What are you doing here?” After seeing Illya with the blonde swimmer this morning, Napoleon was still feeling a mixture of embarrassment, confusion and frustration with himself for his jealousy – he’d spent only one evening with Illya, after all; he had no claim on the other man whatsoever – and with his emotions all in a jumble, Illya himself was the last person he wanted to see at the moment.

Illya shrugged one shoulder lightly and sat down beside Napoleon, leaning against the crate, their shoulders touching. “I wished to see if I could find out who is putting chemicals in the water of the swimming pool, and why. This is the only time they could be doing it.”

Napoleon turned his head to stare at Illya. “You, too? I’m here for the same reason, but that’s because my boss seems to be very sure there’s something fishy about this whole thing. Why are _you_ doing this?”

“My sister,” said Illya, “is swimming for Russia. I would like to make sure that she does not have to swim in tainted water.”

“Your sister?” Napoleon blinked at Illya. “That lady I saw you with this morning? She’s your sister?”

Illya looked a little surprised at Napoleon’s incredulous tone. “Yes, my half-sister, actually. That is why we do not have the same surname.”

“Oh,” said Napoleon. He coughed and looked away, willing the heat in his cheeks down.

“Napoleon?” Illya peered at him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Napoleon said hastily. Illya stared at him, and Napoleon wasn’t sure what it was Illya saw in his face, but Illya’s expression gentled and he leaned over to press his lips briefly to Napoleon’s before pulling away.

As Illya leaned back against the crate again, Napoleon noticed that there was a bandage wrapped around the upper part of his right arm, just visible under the sleeve of his T-shirt. “What happened to your arm?” Napoleon asked in concern, gently touching the bandage. “Is it bad? Will you still be able to compete?”

Illya glanced at his arm, looking surprised, as if he’d forgotten about his injury. “Oh,” he said, pressing his lips together. He looked like he was trying to stifle a laugh. Napoleon, brow furrowed, looked at him in puzzlement.

Peeling off the tape from the end of the bandage, Illya efficiently unwound the entire bandage from his arm. His arm was undamaged, but stark on the pale, smooth skin were five oval bruises, exactly the size and shape of Napoleon’s fingers.

“I thought,” Illya said, lips twitching, “it would be better not to show them off on national television.”

“Oh my god,” said Napoleon, mortified. “I’m _so sorry_.”

“Don’t be,” said Illya, winding the bandage back on his arm. “I'm not.”

 

***

 

The next evening, Napoleon and Illya were back at the Aquatic Center, staking out the pools again. The previous night had been uneventful, with the two men parting ways near dawn and heading back to their respective apartments.

Nobody came to put anything in the pools that evening, either, but on the upside, Napoleon got to spend the whole evening with Illya, talking quietly and exchanging occasional kisses. He’d brought tea, instead of coffee, in his flask this time, and offering some to Illya had earned him a delighted smile which made his heart do a little somersault in his chest. He was more than a little smitten, he admitted ruefully to himself.

As dawn approached, he invited Illya to come back to his room with him, but Illya declined regretfully, explaining that his event was tomorrow afternoon and the whole Russian team – like most of the other countries’ delegations, he was sure – had been expressly banned from having sex the night before competing.

Napoleon laughed, agreeing that the same rule applied to the USA team.

“I am sure,” said Illya, “that you could easily find many willing volunteers to...keep you company.” He sounded less than enthusiastic about the prospect, looking, in fact, like he regretted making the suggestion at all.

“That’s okay,” said Napoleon. “I think,” he added with a smile, “you’ll be worth the wait.”

 

***

 

The next afternoon was the finals of the men’s horizontal bars, Illya’s event. This wasn’t one of the events Napoleon was covering, but he went anyway, both to support his country, who had a man competing in the event, and also to watch Illya, of course.

Illya was the last competitor of the event. Seeing Illya on the horizontal bars, Napoleon understood why all the articles he’d read about Illya had praised him as being one of the top competitors in this event. He’d already thought Illya was attractive, before – but on the bars he was _beautiful_ , intent and graceful, making his whole routine look effortless. When he executed a perfect dismount, the applause was deafening.

He felt a little thrill as Illya’s score – the _winning_ score – came up on the boards and the Russian delegation broke out into cheers and whoops, then immediately felt guilty because Illya’s win meant that the USA walked away with the silver medal instead of the gold. He _did_ try his best not to applaud too hard for another country while standing in the midst of his own countrymen, but couldn’t quite help the proud smile that curved his lips as Illya, standing on the winners’ podium, ducked his head to receive the gold medal. Mark glanced over at him, rolled his eyes, nudged Harry next to him, and nodded towards Napoleon. Both men started snickering. Napoleon discreetly kicked Mark in the shin.

 

***

 

That evening, Napoleon and Illya met again at the Aquatic Center, settling in for a picnic dinner of roast beef sandwiches and fruit slices that Napoleon had purloined from the dining hall. “I even brought wine,” said Napoleon, producing the bottle and two glasses, “to celebrate your victory.”

Illya accepted a glass of wine, looking amused. “Is that all the reward I get?” he asked, looking at Napoleon from beneath lowered lashes.

“Oh,” growled Napoleon, reaching for him, “I’ll _show_ you what – ” and that was as far as he got as the door of the Aquatic Center creaked open and both men fell instantly silent.

Footsteps approached the swimming pool on their left, the one that was, as yet, uncontaminated. Very slowly, Napoleon poked his head out from behind one side of the crate, while Illya peeked around the other side. A man, dressed in a black T-shirt and black trousers, with a cap pulled low over his head, was standing at the edge of the pool, opening the cap of a glass jar filled with a clear liquid.

Illya sprang out from behind the crate, running at the stranger as he was tipping the jar over the pool, then taking a huge leap at him and tackling him to the floor. The jar flew from the man’s fingers and crashed to the floor, clear liquid spreading out in a puddle around shards of broken glass.

“Wha – Illya!” Grumbling under his breath, Napoleon stepped out from behind the crates, belatedly realizing that the black-clad man had pulled a knife out of his pocket and was trying to stab Illya with it. “Illya, _look out_!”

He jumped into the fray just a little too late, managing to deflect the knife but not entirely able to keep the blade away from Illya. The blond grunted in pain as the knife nicked his arm, then punched the man in the face. As the stranger fell back, dazed, Napoleon helped Illya roll him over, then Illya sat on the man’s legs and pinned his arms behind his back.

Looking around, Napoleon saw that some of the crates they’d been hiding behind were still sealed and tied with lengths of rope. “Ah,” he said.

Picking up the knife that the stranger had dropped, he went over to one of the sealed crates, cut off some rope, and tied the man’s arms and legs securely while Illya looked on.

“Could you go get Mr. Waverly while I watch this guy?” he asked Illya. “He’s on the top floor of the USA residence.”

Nodding, Illya left. He returned twenty minutes later carrying a small glass vial with a corked top and a pair of rubber gloves, with Mr. Waverly in tow. As Mr. Waverly strode over to Napoleon, Illya pulled on the gloves, uncorked the glass vial and went over to the puddle of liquid on the floor, scooping some of it up into the vial and carefully putting the stopper back on.

“Welcome back,” said Napoleon, “and not a moment too soon. This guy would _not_ shut up.”

The man glared sullenly at them from where he was trussed up on the floor.

“He kept talking about some bird – crow, robin...” Napoleon frowned. “No, a thrush, that was it. And he was ranting about, uh, world domination.”

“T.H.R.U.S.H., here. Hmm,” said Mr. Waverly, taking the small vial of liquid that Illya was holding out to him and squinting at it. “Very interesting.”

“Thrush?” Illya frowned deeply. “I have heard of this organization. There are rumors that they are behind certain terrorist activities in Russia, but nobody knows for certain.”

Mr. Waverly looked even more interested. “If you have some time to speak with me about that, I’d like to hear what you know about this organization,” he said to Illya. “In the meantime, I’m going to send this for analysis.” He shook the tube of liquid gently, then nodded at the two men. “Get some rest, gentlemen. Good work.”

After Mr. Waverly had left, Napoleon turned to Illya, who was examining the nick on his arm. “You shouldn’t be so reckless,” Napoleon grumbled, peering worriedly at his friend’s arm. “You would make a terrible spy.”

“It is a good thing that I am not a spy, then,” Illya told him, carelessly swiping some blood from his arm.

Napoleon scowled at him. “How’s your arm?”

“Fine,” said Illya dismissively. “Just a shallow cut.”

“Good,” said Napoleon, and jumped him.

 

***

 

Illya, taken off guard, stumbled backward into the pile of crates behind him, and the crates – mostly empty – went flying everywhere. Illya landed on his ass on the floor, Napoleon on top of him, kissing him urgently, hands roaming over planes of muscle and sliding down to palm his cock through his jeans.

When they broke the kiss, both men panting for breath, Napoleon shifted himself downward over Illya’s body and unzipped his jeans, pushing them down and letting Illya’s cock spring free. He lapped at the moisture at the slit, and Illya gasped and writhed as Napoleon licked the head of his cock, swirling his tongue under the foreskin. As Napoleon took more of Illya’s cock into his mouth, Illya arched up, eyes sliding shut and hands buried in Napoleon’s hair. “ _Oh_ – Napoleon – ”

Napoleon abruptly stopped what he was doing, sitting back on his heels, and Illya’s eyes flew open in indignation. Napoleon was groping for his discarded clothes, taking a small tube out from his trouser pocket. He handed it to Illya. Illya sat up, took it and eyed Napoleon suspiciously.

“I was waiting _ages_ for this,” said Napoleon defensively, arranging himself so he was kneeling over Illya’s lap. “I just wanted to be prepared.”

“You waited for _one day_ ,” Illya told him severely, but he was unscrewing the cap and coating his shaking fingers liberally with lube as he spoke.

“Like I said – ah! – _ages_ ,” Napoleon moaned, wriggling as Illya’s fingers circled his entrance, cool and slick. He pushed himself back onto Illya’s finger as Illya slid the first digit into him. Illya stroked Napoleon’s cock with his other hand as he slid a second finger in, then the third, Napoleon whining and thrusting eagerly into Illya’s hand. “C’mon Illya, _now_ – ”

Pulling his fingers out, Illya coated his cock with lube, stroking himself firmly as Napoleon straddled him. Napoleon lowered himself slowly onto Illya’s cock and Illya groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, gripping Napoleon’s hips tightly as he willed himself not to move, until he was fully sheathed inside Napoleon.

Napoleon started to move, bracing himself on Illya’s shoulders, Illya gasping, tossing his head back as Napoleon rode him. He pumped Napoleon’s leaking cock with one hand, the other playing with Napoleon’s balls, until they were both panting hard, thrusting desperately against each other, sweat slicking their bodies. Illya shuddered against Napoleon, clutching at him hard as he cried out; feeling Illya pulse inside him sent Napoleon over the edge, too, sobbing Illya’s name brokenly as he painted Illya’s chest and belly with pearly streaks.

They collapsed on the floor side-by-side after, Illya on his back and Napoleon lying face-down.

"Told you you'd be worth the wait," said Napoleon.

Illya grunted, yawning widely.

“Better get out of here before they find us when they open the place up for tomorrow morning’s swimming events,” Napoleon mumbled into the floor.

“Ugh,” grumbled Illya.

 

***

 

The Games would be ending soon, and Napoleon found that the thought of leaving Rio and going back home – leaving _Illya_ – left him with a vague, hollow sense of disquiet. It was in this somber mood that he received a summons from Mr. Waverly, and obediently took the elevator upstairs to his boss’s apartment.

“Ah, Mr. Solo,” said Mr. Waverly, as Napoleon stepped into his apartment and closed the door behind him. “I’ve been speaking to Mr. Kuryakin about T.H.R.U.S.H. – it seems there have been some worrying developments in Russia that bear looking into.”

“What is this ‘Thrush’ exactly, sir?” Napoleon asked, interested.

“T.H.R.U.S.H. can be best described as a terrorist organization,” said Mr. Waverly slowly. “They work to create chaos and destabilize governments, with the aim of taking control amid the ensuing power vacuum. It seems that they were planning to put some kind of mind-control toxin in the water supply here at the Olympics - fortunately for us, they tested it in the swimming pool first and it reacted with the chlorine, producing the color and odor that alerted the organizers to close the pool, so nobody was hurt. They have to be stopped at all costs.”

“Yes, sir. How can I help?” asked Napoleon. He was starting to harbor a strong suspicion that those rumors about Mr. Waverly being ex-MI6 were true, except now he wasn’t too sure about the “ex” part.

“How do you feel about a post in Russia? Temporary, of course.”

“Sir?”

There was a long pause.

Mr. Waverly looked up and appeared to abruptly realize that Napoleon was still there, gaping at him. He frowned deeply and waved Napoleon away. “Don’t you have some articles you need to write for me?”

As Napoleon was leaving, Mr. Waverly looked up again. “Come and see me this evening. And bring Mr. Kuryakin with you. I believe you two are on friendly terms?” He eyed Napoleon keenly.

Napoleon blushed and fled.

 

***

 

That afternoon, as he and Illya lazed in bed together, Napoleon broached the subject with Illya.

“There’s some kind of post in Russia open,” he ventured tentatively, not sure how Illya would react, if Illya even wanted them to keep in contact after the Games were over. “Mr. Waverly offered me the role. At least, I think he did.”

Illya’s breath caught, then he leaned over and kissed Napoleon, slow and filthy and oh, _so good_.

“It’s a temporary position,” continued Napoleon, a little breathlessly. “But I’ll take it, and after a couple of years, well...who knows?”

Illya swept his thumb over Napoleon’s cheekbone, gentle and intent, then leaned in for another kiss. “Who knows, indeed.”

 

***

 

That evening, Napoleon headed up to Mr. Waverly’s apartment, bringing Illya with him as he’d been instructed.

“Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin,” said Mr. Waverly, nodding at them in greeting. “Take a seat.”

After they’d made themselves comfortable on the couch, Mr. Waverly leaned forward in his seat, steepling his fingers.

“Tell me, gentlemen," he said. "Have you heard of an organization called U.N.C.L.E.?”

 

 

\- End -

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] - From Russia With Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295570) by [flashforeward](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashforeward/pseuds/flashforeward)




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